“What iss it that has come over me?” he asked, faintly.
“You have fallen off your horse, I think,” answered the boy, “and I—I’m afraid a bullet has wounded you in the side.”
“Bullet! Side!” exclaimed Duncan, looking quickly down at the bandage, and attempting to rise. “Little Bill, you must—”
He stopped; seemed to grow faint, and fell down; but quickly raised himself again on one elbow and looked round.
“Shot!—dying!” he muttered; then turning to the boy—“Stay by me, Little Bill. Don’t leave me here all alone.”
“No, I won’t leave you, unless—perhaps it would be better if I rode back to camp for help.”
“True, true. It’s my only chance,” said the poor man, faintly. “Go, Billie, and go quick. Put something under my head. And—stay—leave your gun with me.”
“I’m so sorry I haven’t got one, but here is my bottle of water; you may want that, and—”
He stopped, for Duncan had evidently fainted again.
The poor boy was terribly alarmed at this. He had wit enough to perceive that prompt action was needed, for his friend was in very great danger, while the buffalo runners were by that time out of sight in front, and the camp was far behind. In this crisis Billie acted with decision. First making the bandage over the wound more secure, and pouring a little more water into the mouth of the wounded man, he went to a clump of willows, and cut a stout switch, then, remounting, he turned on his track and made straight for the camp as fast as his willing pony could be made to lay hoof to the ground.